


Distorted

by smalld1171



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalld1171/pseuds/smalld1171
Summary: Dean gets in trouble. Involves abduction, drugs, and a personality overhaul. Very short chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

He feels the sting of it; of the needle as it pierces his skin; of the heat as it rushes through his veins and the contents are plunged into him. He growls through the dirty cloth shoved in his mouth and desperately shakes his head to loosen the ever increasing numbness that starts to invade it.

Whatever the hell this shit is, it sure works fast. He thinks he can hear high heels click-clack on what he assumes is a concrete floor; thinks he can hear a stereotypical evil laugh bounce its way off the walls and echo in his head. He pries his leaden lids open but the hell if he can make out the shadowy figure that seems to float across his vision.

He tries to fight the euphoria he starts to feel, tries to stay strong and defiant but he can't quite remember why he would want to, not when a surge of calm and peace soaks into him like rainwater over a parched desert. He laughs out loud as he realizes how proud Sam would be of his sudden, inner chick flick moment.

Sam. He thinks maybe his brother should get a dose of this too. Whatever this is. Maybe it would get the stick out of his ass long enough to help him relax for a damn minute. Sam. Sammy. He tries to hold on to the image that flutters around him; the image of his freakishly tall but gentle brother; the image of his Sammy. All too soon it seems that same image contorts and fizzles out, leaving his drugged up brain to head right on down to the corner of exhilaration and contentment.

Awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

Awesome. Yeah, that's how he feels. Actually, he's pretty damn sure he has never felt quite this good before. Like, ever. He feels serene and calm and… huh… happy? He thought that particular emotion had been forcibly and forever removed from his repetoire after decades of dodging shit pile after shit pile.

He has no idea where he is but, as he strains to move his hand to scratch the tickle on his nose, the restraints that hold him to the chair and the feel of the gag still stuffed down his throat wiggle through his haze the unwelcome message that something about this is not right.

As if on cue, the cloth begins its retreat and is slowly extracted from his saliva free mouth. He licks his parched lips, tries to swallow, and attempts to hone in on what circumstances led to him being fricken hog tied in the dark. But to be honest, he doesn't really give one little shit. Whatever. Hell, it can't be that bad if it feels so damn good. Again the voice is in his head; it screams out a warning to him complete with alarm bells and blaring horns as it resonates from somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Wrong. This is wrong.

He tries once again to open his eyes; to try and get a handle on where the hell he is, but before he has the chance he feels breath on the side of his face and a feminine voice whisper in his ear.

"Don't worry, you're fine Dean. Don't you remember? You begged me to know how it felt, to have all the evil and taint that has infected your very soul washed away. And now you do. Just imagine, never ending euphoria. Let me give you this gift and you can feel this way for the rest of existence."

Euphoria for the rest of existence? Hell, that doesn't sound so bad. Purged from the poison and ugliness that has ruled his life up until this exact moment in time? As the promise of that claws into him and hangs on to his very core, he reaches out to that damn voice in his head, crushes it, and smiles as it fades into silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay. He is pretty damn shaky and freakin cold and can feel his body drenched in sweat. He doesn't remember tying one on but that is sure as shit how he feels. He wracks his brain to figure it out. Sam and him were... uh... they were... yeah, tracking an evil son of a bitch of course. They... they followed her to... dammit, why can't he remember? Ah hell, good old Sammy can fill him in. Shit, if he didn't know better he'd say he was coming down from the bingiest binge of all time but he can't remember drinking a damn drop. This blows.

"S..Sam?"

What the frick, his throat is dry as a bone and the sandpaper that seems to reside there brings a damn tear to his eyes. But as he peels back an eyelid he instantly hopes to hell that his brother doesn't answer; that he can't answer because he's as far from here as fricken possible. He tries to force himself to concentrate, to get a damn clue about where the hell he is. As the shakiness and chill ebbs off ever so slightly by force of will alone, he becomes more aware and in control, using his senses to zero in on his surroundings.

Touch. It tells him he is laying on a cot. A very uncomfortable and itchy as hell cot. He tries to move and lets out a frustrated growl as he discovers he is strapped down to it; his hands and feet tied to the stupid frame. He feels his breath start to increase and a flutter of panic starts to invade his thoughts but he shakes his head and tries to focus on one thing. Sam. Gotta make sure baby brother is not in this shit hole right along side him.

Sight. It tells him he is almost completely in the dark, with only a small sliver of light to help pierce through the veil of blackness.

Hearing. It tells him absolutely nothing. He hears absolutely nothing besides his own rapid heartbeat and the ever increasing intake of air into his lungs.

Taste. His tongue darts out and he almost gags at the copper tinge that makes his taste buds react. Blood.

Smell. He breathes in and is bombarded with the worst odour of all. It's overpowering and undeniable. Death.

As his eyes become more accustomed to the lack of light, he peers down at his body and fights to keep the bile where it belongs. Well ain't this peachy. Okay, so it ain't exactly sweat that clings to him. He doesn't need booming flourescent lights to know that he is sporting an amount of blood that can't be from a nick while shaving. But hell, he doesn't feel the pain or lightheadedness that he has become all too familiar with in past experiences with blood loss. Which can only mean one thing. The red ooze that seems to coat him from head to boots is not his. He closes his eyes and tries to remember; tries to rationalize where it could have come from but comes up with not one damn image. He growls again at his inability to think.

Well shit. Okay. This much is obvious. He ain't at the motel. And from what he can actually see he ain't with his brother. So, that would mean he's with...

Click-clack go the high heels on the concrete floor. He is sure he has heard that before. The sound is coming up behind him and he pulls at the binds that keep him stubbornly in place. The noise stops and he's pretty sure he stops breathing altogether in that moment. The voice is there again, right by his ear.

"How you feeling Dean? You gave me quite a scare, I thought you weren't going to wake up. You did really good though, you should be very proud."

... with the evil son of a bitch herself.


	4. Chapter 4

He can't stop the reflex of his swallow as he tries to gulp down the newly formed lump in his throat. His muddled up brain may have decided to take an impromptu and ill advised vacation, but he has learned to trust his instincts and they are screaming out to him that he is in a shitload of trouble.

She laughs quietly in his ear and he feels the tickle of her breath on his neck. The sensation suddenly fades as she pulls away and he can't do anything but follow her movements as she leaves her hidden position to stand right in the centre of that solitary stream of light; the light that seems to come from nowhere.

Nowhere. That fact compels him to search frantically to pinpoint its origin. It is nothing more than an exercise in futility and frustration as he realizes there are no windows, no doors, no god damn anything that should produce light. The place blankets him in darkness and an unrelenting chill seems to freeze him solid as panic threatens to overtake him. The absolute eeriness of his surroundings swells inside him and seems to be compounded tenfold by that one single, little speck of brightness.

He shakes his head to get out of his 'The Search for Light' mission to focus once more on the bitch who is responsible. Shit. He must be seriously fricked up cuz she looks like a damn angel as she stands there; as the glow from that damn mystery spotlight illuminates her. Her hair is golden, her skin is fair and smooth and she is cloaked in a long, white dress.

Hell, why can't evildoing, murderous hags ever dress the part? This witch should be as ugly as they come, broomstick in hand and packaged up nice and freaky in a tattered black dress to compliment the empty, cavernous hole where a heart should be. Huh. Well, he supposes it would be a tad more difficult to massacre the innocents if they catch one glimpse of your ugly mug and go running and screaming into the hills.

"Like what you see?"

He flinches as her voice pierces right through him. Damn it, busted for staring at a damn skank. Perfect. She actually looks herself up and down and stretches her hands out from her sides like she knows exactly what he was thinking. All she needs is a fricken halo above her blonde locks and the facade would be complete. She smirks at him, tilts her head to one side and raises a manicured eyebrow.

"Well?"

His head still pounds like a freight train but he ain't gonna give this lying slut the satisfaction. He sends her his infamous death glare, complete with sharpened to the hilt daggers, and hopes to hell that just this once it will actually work and she will self combust into a pile of ash on the spot. But no, all it seems to accomplish is heighten the excitement she seems to be embroiled in by his discomfort. He is seriously up the proverbial shit creek, so he pulls out the only other weapon he has left in his stripped down arsenal. His mouth.

"You know I would, if I was actually into skanky hell whores that hack people up purely for the entertainment value alone, but that is so 80's. Well, would you look at the time? This has been fun and all but how about you untie me and let me show you up close and personal how I feel about you sweetheart.'

The smile broadens at that and he clenches his hands into fists to contain the shiver that rattles through him. No way is he gonna show her how much he is currently freaked the hell out. He may not remember anything but there is no mistaking what the queasiness that flutters around in his gut like a caged butterfly tells him. He is about to find out, and he ain't gonna like it one fricken bit.

"My poor, confused Dean, what a pity you don't remember. But don't worry, I can help."

"Nah, thanks but I think I'll pass."

She saunters over, closer and closer to his immobile form, and he strains his neck in a fruitless attempt to get as far away from her as possible. His mind races in tandem with his heart and he is overwhelmed by a terrifying and foreboding sense that the last thing he wants to do is remember.

"Dean?"

He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments. He forces himself to calm his rapid breaths and ground himself before he lifts his lids, fires up his laser eyeballs to their maximum setting and turns back to let 'em rip.

"I'm going to kill you."

Her face drops slightly as she takes in his gravelly threat but that look is quickly replace by a sugary sweet smile. She leans over and quietly voices a string of words that effectively deflate his defiance and glare in an instant.

"It wasn't me who did the slicing and dicing."

He does not like where this is going.

"It. Was. You."


End file.
